Infamous Goose
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1.2 Tricks and Traps
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 01:32:40 +0000 UTCLysander placed a smooth river stone in the pouch of his sling, eyeing the fat grouse as it slowly made its way down the hillside, hopping over a fallen log and weaving between the branches of some scrub oak. Luck was on his side this morning, it seemed. He hadn’t even been looking to hunt – he had enough supplies – but a fresh meal instead of the jerky and nuts he’d been subsisting on would be more than welcomed. The grey-feathered, fat bird paused just as it emerged from the scrub oak, picking at something on the ground, and he whirled his sling above his head. It looked up at the odd noise and he loosed his stone, killing it with a perfect strike to the head. With a happy whistle he marched over to the fallen bird, bowing his head to thank it for its sacrifice before picking it up by the feet.
“You’re going to taste good.” He hummed at the dead grouse, whistling happily as he marched on to check on his new friends, adjusting his pack with his free hand. Is it really friendship when only one of us knows about the other? He wondered, sauntering through the woods as he made his way to the other side of the mountain. After two days of tracking the lizards, he’d discovered that the little entrance he’d found was not the lizards’ main entrance; no, that lay on the complete opposite side of the mountain, and was far more noticeable.
Somewhere off to his right a bird whistled and he whistled back, a spring in his step as he rounded a tree and emerged from the dark timber. Course brown stone lay at his feet, ending in a sheer cliff that gave way to a breathtaking sight. A lake glittered at the foot of the mountain, a small stream bleeding off of it to circle back around and connect with the main river. The valley was narrower on this side of the mountain, filled with marshland and thick shrubbery around the lake. Only occasionally did groves of trees rise from the yellow-grass marshes, rising up like islands of pine and stone even against the backdrop of towering mountains. But, better than all that, was the movement below.
From where he was he could see lizards working their way around the lake, bright oranges, reds, and yellows flashing through the tall grass as the lizards scampered about, fishing and foraging in the lake and marshes. There were far more of them than Lysander had ever expected, and those were only the scouts sent out in the early morning. More lay in a cave in the cliffs below, dug out of the side and marked with torches. The smell of something being cooked drifted up on a gentle breeze and Lysander found himself salivating, glancing down at the grouse he still held in one hand.
Do I risk cooking you now…? No, probably better not. I’ll just clean you while I watch for a bit. He figured, settling down on the cliffside and peering over the edge.
The cliffs were far larger on this side of the mountain, at least forty feet tall, and a bit of vertigo swept over Lysander as he dangled his feet over the edge. That didn’t stop him from staying there, the vertigo passing as he watched the lizards go about their day-to-day life. At least, what he could see of it.
A thin, frail looking lizard with dulled orange scales stood stooped over a stone pot, stirring the soup within with a long wooden ladle. A few children played about on the hillside and around the pot, occasionally stopping to sniff the air as if to see if the food was ready. Two adult lizards worked off to the side, cleaning the hides of two small critters – he couldn’t see what the animals had been, from here. Small, rudimentary lean-tos were built right up next to the cliffs, the area around the cave entrance having been flattened to the best of the lizards’ ability and filled with logs, stones, and occasionally plants and such. Not that Lysander could actually see that from where he sat.
He only knew what the lean-tos hid because he’d snuck into their camp late one night, when most of them were asleep. Sure, he hadn’t gone into the cave, but he’d still snooped. It was all very…simplistic. They didn’t even have slings yet, using spears and traps alone to hunt. Which wasn’t a problem, but he had been half expecting a bit more sophistication. Hoping for it, perhaps, but despite that mild disappointment it was no less exciting to have found these creatures – no, people.
He chuckled to himself, imagining the reactions of the others when he told them what he found this time, and pulled himself away from the cliff’s edge. I can talk all I want about their simple tools and stuff, but they sure do know how to make a sharp knife. Has to be the stone. He mused, pulling the black stone knife he’d taken from his belt and setting about cleaning the grouse. He plucked the feathers and cut away the wings, carefully removing the guts and head, taking extra care not to accidentally nick anything with the knife. It was almost too sharp.
Once he had everything portioned out, he unslung his pack and pulled undid the bone clasp holding it shut. Colorful beads decorated the edges of the leather pack, his sister’s work, and he did his best not to smear them with any of the blood on his hands as he carefully pulled out a second, smaller, undecorated pouch from within. This was his dedicated ‘meat’ bag, something he’d made after he got tired of having to wash out the inside of his big pack. Not that he didn’t have to wash this one, but still…
Shaking his head, he stuffed the grouse into the pouch then closed it up and put it away, slinging his pack back over his shoulder. For a moment longer he watched the lizards below, some of them wading into the shallow waters of the lake to try spearfishing. Sitting here observing didn’t feel appealing today.
“Time to go check those traps, I suppose.” He muttered, stepping back into the tree line and marching off along the cliffs. A quick glance at the sky told him the time, and he picked up the pace, racing down the mountain side, leaping over fallen logs and darting up boulders. He wanted to get to the traps before the lizards who placed them did – and he might be cutting it a little close. At least we don’t have to compete with the frost bear anymore. He mused. The great beast had thankfully wandered off a few days ago, leaving Lysander and the lizards in peace. It probably prowled all up and down these valleys, this mountain only a part of its territory.
Despite his rapid pace, it took nearly an hour and a half to reach where the traps had been laid, down the side of the mountain and in the valley below. And, thankfully, he seemed to be ahead of the hunting party likely coming to check said traps. Which gave him ample time to check them beforehand. Many of the traps were fairly well thought out and placed – a few had even been successful overnight! Which was a rarity, as oftentimes traps, especially simplistic ones like these, wouldn’t be successful for quite a long time.
Lysander crouched beside one such successful trap. Tall pines rustled in the light breeze around him, the grove relatively silent and peaceful save for the dead rabbit crushed to death beneath a stone that had fallen atop it. The lizards largely used these kinds of “deadfall” traps, this one a figure 4 trap, and he had yet to see an example of a snare or the like. Maybe they haven’t figured it out yet. He wondered, standing and moving toward his favorite trap – not because it was clever or neat, but rather the opposite.
He wandered out of the trees, pushing through a game trail made through the tall golden grasses toward a natural wall of willowy bushes. Natural tunnels crisscrossed through the bushes, and a stream could be heard burbling on the other side. In theory it was a good spot, the willows were dense, and there should plenty of tracks from small animals running through the willows – that was where the good ideas ended, though, and Lysander crouched as he crawled into the tunnel he was looking for.
The trap itself was built to the side of the main game trail, in a natural passage between the thin trunks and branches that, if he squinted and tilted his head to the side and ignored the lack of animal tracks, might look like another trail leading to a den of some kind. The log that acted as the “deadfall” part of the trap was simultaneously too big and too rotten, there was no way that it would hurt anything even if it fell. Not that it would fall. Lysander poked at the trigger; two sticks stuck into the ground, one sitting in the middle of the ‘bait,’ a pile of smashed up bugs, that would ideally release the log when touched. He poked the stick again. Ideally.
It was the kind of trap a child would make. Gods knew he’d made a few traps like that when he was first learning the tricks of the trade – his parents had let him experience failure a few times before reteaching him how to make a proper trap. In fact –
A splash off to the side caught his attention, and he whipped his head around, a jolt of adrenaline and fear spiking through him as he scanned his surroundings and listened for movement. Through the willows he couldn’t see much, a bit of tall grass on one end of the tunnel, muddy banks and light reflecting off the stream on the other, and that was it. If the lizards came now, he’d be well and truly –
Another splash, and this time he caught sight of a small trout leaping out of the stream as little more than a silver flash. He breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, looking back at the trap. Then he looked at the stream. Then back at the trap. A wicked grin wormed its way onto his face. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe his dad’s mischievous tendencies rubbed off on him too much, but this opportunity was too good to pass up. But he didn’t have much time, so he had to move swiftly.
Carefully Lysander crawled the rest of the way through the willows to stand on the banks of the stream, eyes immediately locking onto the silvery flash of a trout as it swam in place against the current, waiting for food to come to it. It was maybe six inches long, almost too big for the shallows it swam in, but plenty big enough for Lysander’s purposes. He pulled off his moccasins, setting them to the side, and rolled up his pants legs as he carefully stepped into the icy-cold water, sucking in a breath at the sudden shock. Slowly he stepped forward, careful to stay out of sight of the trout, until he was nearly standing atop it.
His hand shot out like lightning, fingers wrapping around the trout in a claw-like grip and ripping it from the stream in a splash of water that glittered in the sunlight. It flopped angrily in his grasp and he almost crowed his delight, but remembering the need for speed and stealth instead hopped out of the stream, finished off the fish with a quick blow to the head, and promptly slid back into the willows to place it beneath the trap.
Let’s see them figure this one out. He thought smugly, gently laying the log atop the dead fish. His father had pulled this exact trick on him once, though he’d taken it a step further and made it look like the fish had splashed its way out of the stream, even mimicking how fins looked in the surrounding dirt. Lysander didn’t know how much time he had, so instead he made sure his own tracks were covered, grabbed his moccasins, splashed a bit of water along the path up to the trap just for the fun of it, then darted out of the willows, away from the stream, and toward a grove of trees fifty feet away.
The timing was perfect; as soon as he had clambered up a particularly dense spruce tree, the branches hopefully obscuring him from view, a troupe of three lizards came crawling along his side of the willow wall. They carried rough packs of furred animal skin and long spears tipped with those same black stones. One looked far younger than the others, smaller and with less bright coloring to his scales, its head on a constant swivel as it followed the older hunters. Lysander watched with bated breath, stomach twisting into knots as he both feared he might be seen, and in excitement at seeing their reactions.
Then they disappeared into the willows to check their traps – others had been laid in the tunnels, besides the one he’d tampered with – and he felt his hands clench around a tree branch in anticipation.
Almost immediately there was a bustle of commotion, the lizards darting into the willows and making what Lysander imagined to be excited and confused noises. What sounded like words drifted through the wind, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying – would I even be able to understand Lizard speak? – muffled as it was by distance and willow. Even still, he cracked a grin as the two older lizards came walking out of the willow scratching their heads and sniffing the ground, obviously looking for tracks. Then out came the other one, its orange scales glinting in the sunlight and clutching the fish.
Lysander cackled internally, settling back in his tree – but the amusement only lasted so long, as the lizards scattered and set about looking for tracks. His fists clenched around a tree branch as one scampered around the tree he was perched in, sniffing the dense, low-hanging boughs, before skittering off. He didn’t breathe easy though, as the lizards continued to search the area – checking the other traps, mostly, but sometimes swinging back by to check the fish trap. Occasionally one would make a chirruping sound in the back of their throat, or hiss, but none seemed inclined to look up.
Only when they left the area, and had been gone for a good ten minutes, did Lysander allow himself to relax, chuckling to himself as he slid out of the tree and started off up the mountain once more. That was fun. I wonder if they’ll still be scratching their heads about that next time I swing by. He mused, smirking to himself. All in all though, he considered this a fairly successful last day. Nothing new had been learned but he hadn’t expected that, not in this small amount of time. But with the amount of daylight left and a grouse still in his pack, he figured it was time to head on back to his canoe, maybe get a mile or two of travel in before settling down and cooking his kill. After all, he still had at least a month of travel before he got home.
***
Two hours and a crossed mountain later, Lysander was cursing himself as he watched two of the lizards investigate his canoe. The heavy branches he’d used to obscure the wooden watercraft clearly hadn’t been enough – or, perhaps, had been what attracted their attention in the first place, and now they were rifling through his stuff. The oars had already been tossed to the side, one lizard admiring the outer shell, and the designs carved into the relatively smooth wood, by running its hands – claws? – along the sides and making a deep humming sound in the back of its throat. The other was investigating Lysander’s fishing net, currently, holding it into the air and peering at it with big, unblinking yellow eyes.
“Leave it alone, leave it alone,” he hissed, crouched low behind a fallen log, not far from his craft. The lizard dropped the net, to his relief, only to pick up the hunting spear he’d left in the canoe next, twisting the long shaft this way and that before tossing it into the pile with the oars.
One of the lizards nudged the tip and chirruped at the other, making a “pick it up” motion with both hands. The other cocked its head to the side and scampered to the other end, attempting to pick it up – they managed to get it off the ground, but then the foremost one lost its grip. The canoe hit the ground with a hollow thunk, and the two lizards started hissing at each other.
This was not ok. It was really, really not ok. There was no way he was going to just let these things walk off with his canoe!
Panicking, Lysander fiddled with his fingers and almost leapt out of cover then and there, to scare them off. Then the lizards rolled the canoe over so they could get a better grip on it, and he acted.
Lysander sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a split second, focusing his mind on what he wanted to happen. Will you aid me, spirits? He questioned, feeling his magic start to prickle his skin, pressuring him like a coming thunderstorm. In response a gentle breeze picked up, slowly growing stronger. His eyes snapped open, a pressure building in his chest as he started to hum, first deep but slowly increasing in pitch. The sound echoed through the trees, causing the lizards to pause as they struggled to carry the canoe off.
Water splashed from the river, small waves lapping at the shore in defiance of the standard flow. Lysander screwed his face up in concentration while simultaneously forcing his body to remain relaxed – the harder he tried to hold onto his magic, the harder it got to actually control – all while his humming reached a fever pitch, the wind swirling about him menacingly. The lizards’ heads whipped from side to side, shifting from foot to foot as pine needles and leaves began to swirl about them.
“GO!” Lysander boomed. The wind roared through the trees in a sudden burst, sending pine needles and small twigs flinging through the air, while water splashed up from the river in a sudden spray. The lizards panicked, dropping the canoe and sprinting off on all fours like a hind bear was chasing them – Lysander sighed, all his strength leaving him and nearly falling to the ground, his limbs shaking.
That small display had taken almost all of his energy.
“Thank you for the help,” he whispered, raising one shaking hand into the air. For a brief moment he felt something touch his palm, gentle, like soft grass, but then it was gone. He sighed. Someday he’d be able to sense or, even better, truly see spirits. But he wasn’t old enough yet. Not powerful enough yet. Not like the elders. “You need to move.” He whispered, forcing himself up onto shaking legs and stumbling forward.
As he moved his strength started to return, and he spent a few minutes tossing his stuff back into the canoe before struggling to push it into the water. Only when he managed to get it on the river and was paddling away from the mountain did he breathe a sigh of relief, running a hand along the intricately carved leaves and vines his mother and sister had carved into the wood of the canoe for him.
He’d check it for any damage later. For now, though, he needed to get as far away from the mountain as he could, then settle down to cook a meal. Hungry as he was, he didn’t want to risk being found again.
***
The old Wisdom slowly followed the two young hunters as they made their way through the forests of the Upper World. The sights and sounds of the forest were foreign to her, the strange feathered beasts that flitted about in the high branches of the trees tweets echoing in her ears like the screeches of bats. The endless sky made her head spin – she much preferred the tangible cavern ceilings of the underground. Why this new generation demanded upon exploring the above world she would never understand, not when there was still so much underground to explore.
She shuddered and clutched her bone staff, made from the remains of her first ever great bat, but continued on nonetheless. The spirits had been whispering in her ears for seven turnings of the sun, and upon hearing the ranting and raving of these young hunters, knew she must investigate.
“Slow down, young ones. These old bones are not what they used to be.” She wheezed out, carefully going around a fallen log. A small furry creature – a squirrel, she recognized from what the hunters brought back – burst to life as she turned the corner, skittering up a tree and causing the old wisdom to nearly jump out of her scales.
Her heart thundered in her chest as the two hunters returned to her side, spluttering out apologize and sticking right beside her as they drew her closer to the area where they had encountered the furious spirit. A great river of water roared through a clearing in the trees, nearly thirty span across, the bright sun glinting off of the waters like a dozen tiny flames. The old wisdom let out a long slow breath as the hunters scampered about, pointing out tracks to her that meant nothing – not even the deep furrow close to the banks of the river where the log contraption they had described had likely been pushed back into the water.
Much of what they said meant nothing to her, her senses and mind overwhelmed by all the stimulation of the Upper World. But she had a job to do as the Wisdom, and let out a long, slow breath, setting her staff aside and smoothing her dull yellow scales. Then she pulled a pouch of bones from her side, shaking them and tossing them to the ground in a grand display. They fell haphazardly, incoherently, and she clicked her tongue. The old fashioned way it was, then.
Yet, as soon as she sat and started to open her mind to all around her, calming her breathing with the aid of years of practiced meditation, it all became clear. Spirits drifted in the breeze, invisible to all senses but those of the mind, filling her veins with a sense of joy and mischief. Spirit-friend. Star-child. They whispered. Wisdom and wonder and fun.
“We go back,” she hissed after a time. “It seems you were not just making up stories, young ones. The spirits are agitated, and it is best if we leave them be.” The hunters paused, looked at each other, then looked back at her.
“But –“ one started, wringing his clawed hands together.
“You are a hunter of the Salamanders. If you wish to further disturb whatever spirit drifted through here, bringing with it strangeness of the above world that is your call to make. But I am old, and wish to return home.” the old wisdom hissed again, already making her way back to the comfort of her caves. The hunters scrambled after her, chattering away in her ears as she continued on. What had been here may or may not have been an actual spirit. She wasn’t sure, only that the spirits had clearly liked them. What she was sure of was that these events would surely spark a new wave of youngsters heading out into the forests hunting this…forest spirit.
The world is changing, and changing fast. She thought to herself, shivering as a breeze cooled her scales. And I am too old for such rapid change. Let this be a problem for the new generations. It is time for me to rest.
